And no I am not describing a ceremonial Sharro bout wherein I am whipped to prove my manliness, rather we must go farther back in my history to understand the particular flick of the wrist.
When I was in the sixth grade, a wind carried on it a rumor of a newly re-popularized toy. It was before the age of Facebook, before the blogosphere announced cool, rather we understood what to buy based on what the Kmart stocked and what people might have picked up from their family reunions and visits out of town. Other notable manners to learn of the cool would be kiosks in malls. And this particular peddling wind brought with it the Yomega Yo-Yo. Suddenly strings were cutting the circulation of middle fingers to a trickle and then stopping the blood entirely. A rash of cases stood before the nurse to rub the fingers back to life, a most painful process, but how pride shone across the face as one had proven his or her stamina. And then there was a small small crowd, those who advanced beyond the yomega, those who could sleep their Yoyo the longest. And with Butterfly Bumblebee whizzing at shin level, its blacks and yellows mixing stood Christian winning the longest sleep contests.
The fad soon enough lived up to its truncated name and faded leaving in its wake confounded memories. And middle school passed. And high school passed. And out of the faded recesses of memory a painful return began to claw its way through my cerebellum, the nostalgia of the Yo Yo. It took long to require my old butterfly bumblebee, but luckily the young man to whom I sold it just before the Yoyo bubble burst (still my best investment, although repurchasing it cost me an arm and a leg, alas for retro). I wrote a speech, I practiced it while sailing about Lake Superior, and then performed a now legendary graduation speech in the gymnasium of Yankton High School.
And then the Yo Yo faded once more, this time it sank and slept on its string for a much longer time as it perplexed Morpheus himself with its whirling spangle of yellow and black, but it returned and once more the crowds cheered. Like the great High Wire walker from the classic children's book whose name I have forgotten, I found my gift once more. I walked into class to see some chaos prevailing. Onguene, the hero of last week's narrative, was bouncing a Yoyo on the ground. The simple blue contraption has rubber runners along its edges to protect it from just such abuse. I reached out my hand for it, and Onguene meekly passed it over and moved to take his seat. He did this because of my new rigid policy on class comportment, but I decided to not place it in the treasury of plundered objects that I collect throughout the class periods. Instead I shrugged off my satchel, cracked my knuckles, and rapidly unwound the string. Examining the Yoyo, I found it cheap, but luckily with a fixed axle which would allow me to perform, and with a few experimental ups and downs, I looked around, the students stood around, some stop benches others crouched on the table tops and others peering between the crooks of their fellow students' elbows. I began clearing a space with some languid shootings of the moon, and the I whizzed into a routine. It took a second, but after the first around the world when they saw that I could manipulate the string as an adept (I claim no great superiority, but they had never even seen Yoyo sleep before) soon they were chanting Mr Christian in unison and I rocked the baby, through a rocket over my elbow and tossed some figure eights their way. I soon showed them some one and two handed stars and heard shouts of "les etoiles!." and just as quickly as I began, I ended, unclasping the tightened string from my now whiter than my other white fingers and took up the chalk to begin the day's lesson and together we learned to discuss things that we can't do and things that we won't do.
The other even of great note is that the English Club finally took its excursion, a picnic to the site of Wacwa where there is a facility to study cows. The area is quite beautiful, tucked into the bush beside a natural crater lake with the looing of cattle harmonizing with the mosquito's tzzzz. To get there took a hassle and three quarters, for the school has no truck to lend us, but fortunately Ninga, a co-coordinator (a model of bilingualism as he is a native Francophone and teaches geography) contacted an elder from his village who lives in Yaounda and had a pickup. And then with ten girls tucked into the back end and the cab crammed, we bounced and boinced our way out of town. And as we hit the main road, the kids all hit a stride of exhubersnce and began bellowing forth the lyrics to songs praising bilingualism (yeah yeah yeah bilingual, / yeah yeah yeah is important) hardly inspired songs, but when ten voices rise above the noise and clutter of the streets of Yaounde, it is a beautiful thing. And so we arrived with dust clouding around our tires and musical strains resting in our ears.
The site is actually quite depressing, it is a cross between something out of Poe's "the system of doctor tarr and professor fether" with a haunted house at the midway in Levitttown. Once upon a time it was a leading experimental lab, but today many rooms are locked, the lids on glass containers with snakes and various pickled parasites are cracked and fumes leak, the floors are coated with the husks of dead bees, cobwebs creep from every corner desiring to transform themselves into a new mode of haberdashery, and the dried bones of horse skeletons sit in boxes awaiting identification by students that may never come and looking, thus, like the floor of Jack's giant must have looked after he fell to his death and his servants and dogs and wife left the house, leaving only the gnawed remains of horseflesh. The unarticulated bones still rest behind my eyes, but most haunting, for me, was to stand in the bizarre jaundice-painted halls and see in kaleidoscopic perspective the door at the end of the hall, but it did not say exit, nor did the other, instead the smell filled the area of anesthetic/dust odor and the students filled obediently past our guides to look at the active areas of the site (where, to be fair, there is some really exciting work happening on a vaccine for something that hurts humans here in Africa) but our tour guide was a strange woman who kept taking us into different rooms to uncover and object and declare it to be a microscope and then switch rooms and do the same and then have the effrontery to ask why the students were bored. But they were not bored at all when the veterinarian gave his speech. This six foot two Adonis with the languid eyes, expressive hands, and easy knowledge bout performing a c-section on a kicking horse, had the young ladies pecking corn from his calloused palm. And a great question session followed, from the students of ColPro did not even know that such a profession existed and it was awesome to watch their minds torque toward the future and contemplate having a job that they desired and could find fulfillment in. And then it was over and we ate some fish and plantains on the lawn outside the compound and I ate the fish eyes of many fish because at a party last week that many teachers attended, I revealed that I delight in suctioning the eyes of fish down my esophagus and now have a small fame for it. I also am famous for the creation of a new food, namely the "Souris-chauve" the delicacy beloved of the American. It is not a real food. See, a chauve-souris is a bat, but when I was talking about how I would probably not eat mouse but would eat bat, I mixed up the pronoun and gales of laughter met me, and the jokes and elbow prods continued all week as people say that they went looking for the souris-chauve but could not find it, or they asked if I ate any last night. It is, though, pretty funny and I get a kick out of it. (this story makes more since if you know that a chauve-souris translates, literally, as a bald mouse).
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Wherein I'm inscribed, generically
In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries there emerged and died a genre in English literature that since been labeled the "thing" or "it narrative." It is a fascinating genre in which the author follows an object through it's trajectory. Most popular were coins and handkerchiefs. They would go from factory to pocket, hand to hand, and throughout their existence was punctured between the Manicheaen poles of light and dark. This genre emerged because of a national consciousness of the changing ways of interaction between mankind as a result of the industrial revolution. (for Blake's response the shifting interactions through the metaphor of the Thames and rivers in general, see my Lectures on Blake as Presented to Mercy College, Cameroon). Anyway, out of the death of the thing narrative came a revitalized interest in the passage of man from stage to stage, jostled and hustled by others until he achieved some sort of education, that is, achieved a sense of self. This is, of course, this Bildungsroman. In this genre, the protagonist moves about experiencing various sensations. It is remarkable for its paradoxical passivity. For as the hero actively undertakes adventures and adventures undertakings, his revelations and epistemic shifts occur from external sources and are often the source for contemplation (the thing thinking about what it saw in the light when it returns to the pocket). This tradition, we can say broadly, begins with Goethe' Wilhelm Meister, a man whose last name gives the telos, through Tom Jones by Fielding, Nicholas Nickelby by Dickens, and a Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man by Joyce. This list is, obviously, a minuscule sample joined by a genre link and the fact that I think everyone should read them. It is in the last that we find young Stehen Daedalus (Joyce understands the interpellating power of the last name) having epiphanies forced upon him. It is through his series of epiphanies that Stephen moves. it is through aesthetic spheres that Wilhelm moves, it is by road and through society that Tom Jones moves, it is through violent encounters that Nicholas moves, and it is through writing and grading exams at College Protestant that Christian moves.
Of these models, I am most like Stephen in that I have the modernist tradition of self reflection to enable me to state, "ahh I am having an experience of epiphany now I am changing" and rather than have the change affect me, I affect the change. So how did it happen. It began last week when I announced the exam. I then carefully detailed every class between last Wednesday and this Thursday to contain a portion of review and a portion of the new lesson. In this way, I felt, I handed over the manner of achieving perfect scores. And then the exam came and I watched as they struggled and struggled turning their papers this way and that. Confused, I walked around one whispered angrily to me "we've never seen these sentences before" another that "these sentences are harder than those you gave." I was shocked. Of course the sentences were different, of course they were harder an exam is meant to push and challenge. It is a map with the borders but hazy un-inked cloudinesses given Rorschach blots from the stains of the students who learn through suffering. Well, perhaps not all that, but it is meant to apply the lessons taught. So I shrugged off these comments.
And then, after giving the last test of the day, a tiny little boy, Onguene, approached me smiling, I asked him if he thought the exam was easy. He smiled and said, "No, it was a very good exam; I failed." There was my epiphany. Somehow the students were judging the exam's quality rather than its efficacy to actually perform an examination. I wondered why this was, and in the dark of my pocket of consciousness, I decided that it is because I am not severe enough. On Friday, I walked into class, to minutes after the whistle, (the bell is broken) I took attendance and counted as absent all who were not there. Then I made them clear their desks of everything not related to English class. I then wrote the date on the board and a clearly articulated theme. I admitted to them that it was probably my fault as well as theirs (le desordre est commun mais l'echec est individuel) and will now no longer believe them when they tell me that they understand. Also, I now link a common question to each lesson with a variety of responses I have always done this, but now I make them write it down. I decided on this because after asking, every day, last week "how did you come to school today" I had a depressing number who failed to answer with any coherence. And I also am returning to something that I did at the beginning of the year. I go around and force them to ask each other in small groups.
And so we shall see if change occurs. For after all, if Stephen eventually epiphanied himself into one if the greatest novels ever written, "Ulysses," wherein might I?
I realize that little this post covered hardly anything, but I did little but go back and forth to school. At the coffeeshop last night, June jokingly said "O, there're no comics from your mom today, eh?" to which I silently flourished a new envelope from out of my pocket. And after making everyone admire the stamps of hot air balloons, we shared the comics and laughter elicited from them. The best, a drops Hagar the Horrible which finds our hero and his perpetually underfed sidekick locked in manacles in a prison. They resign themselves to their fate and decide at that point that all they can do is shake their chains and sing Jingle Bells. (the connections with my tesching the same song to students are delicious apropos of Foucault's "Discipline and Punish" and the link between state correctional institutions.
Of these models, I am most like Stephen in that I have the modernist tradition of self reflection to enable me to state, "ahh I am having an experience of epiphany now I am changing" and rather than have the change affect me, I affect the change. So how did it happen. It began last week when I announced the exam. I then carefully detailed every class between last Wednesday and this Thursday to contain a portion of review and a portion of the new lesson. In this way, I felt, I handed over the manner of achieving perfect scores. And then the exam came and I watched as they struggled and struggled turning their papers this way and that. Confused, I walked around one whispered angrily to me "we've never seen these sentences before" another that "these sentences are harder than those you gave." I was shocked. Of course the sentences were different, of course they were harder an exam is meant to push and challenge. It is a map with the borders but hazy un-inked cloudinesses given Rorschach blots from the stains of the students who learn through suffering. Well, perhaps not all that, but it is meant to apply the lessons taught. So I shrugged off these comments.
And then, after giving the last test of the day, a tiny little boy, Onguene, approached me smiling, I asked him if he thought the exam was easy. He smiled and said, "No, it was a very good exam; I failed." There was my epiphany. Somehow the students were judging the exam's quality rather than its efficacy to actually perform an examination. I wondered why this was, and in the dark of my pocket of consciousness, I decided that it is because I am not severe enough. On Friday, I walked into class, to minutes after the whistle, (the bell is broken) I took attendance and counted as absent all who were not there. Then I made them clear their desks of everything not related to English class. I then wrote the date on the board and a clearly articulated theme. I admitted to them that it was probably my fault as well as theirs (le desordre est commun mais l'echec est individuel) and will now no longer believe them when they tell me that they understand. Also, I now link a common question to each lesson with a variety of responses I have always done this, but now I make them write it down. I decided on this because after asking, every day, last week "how did you come to school today" I had a depressing number who failed to answer with any coherence. And I also am returning to something that I did at the beginning of the year. I go around and force them to ask each other in small groups.
And so we shall see if change occurs. For after all, if Stephen eventually epiphanied himself into one if the greatest novels ever written, "Ulysses," wherein might I?
I realize that little this post covered hardly anything, but I did little but go back and forth to school. At the coffeeshop last night, June jokingly said "O, there're no comics from your mom today, eh?" to which I silently flourished a new envelope from out of my pocket. And after making everyone admire the stamps of hot air balloons, we shared the comics and laughter elicited from them. The best, a drops Hagar the Horrible which finds our hero and his perpetually underfed sidekick locked in manacles in a prison. They resign themselves to their fate and decide at that point that all they can do is shake their chains and sing Jingle Bells. (the connections with my tesching the same song to students are delicious apropos of Foucault's "Discipline and Punish" and the link between state correctional institutions.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Wherein I miss a half hour of teaching
What a number of surprising things have happened this week ranging from the traumatic, to the humorous, to the just plain swell.
Things began last Friday with our last meal at the coffeeshop with Mia, for she left this week and thus we filled the week with last times. After sitting there and reading some comics that my mama sent to us, as always wonderfully and uniquely apropos to the quotidian out here in Ngaoundere, although we sometimes spend much more time on the backs of the comics trying to decipher an advertisement or figure out what a crossword clue might have been, or piece together a certain horoscope, at times I feel we need Rex Stout to be across from us in order to give us a hint, and some recondite anecdote about an exotic food ingredient or the color tinge of a lily. But we do our best. Sunday we went to the Plaza for Ngaoundere's most expensive meal, a Buffet that confuses me a great deal because there is always the same amount of food, but sometimes there is no one there and sometimes there are a dozen tables full, I have yet to get out my graphing calculator and figure it out, preferring instead to be awash in puzzlement. Mia, though, was one happy camper all weekend because she had finally gotten her package in the mail for Christmas, and it was full of ingredients. She is allergic to wheat, so various baking mixes were desires by her. (notice the beautiful passive constructive with agent introduced by preposition 'by'--could you pass my English tests?). The reason for this long explanation is that I manipulated a breakfast out of her. After listening to her regale us with tales of pancakes and Minnesota maple syrup (also in the package) I asked if she'd not like to use more of her ingredients before departing and then brazenly invited myself over for a breakfast on Monday and then I found myself transported to America! It is amazing what some dough cakes flipped around in a pan and then soaked in the syrups tapped from tall trees can do for the memory. If I were in a more scholastic mood, and feeling wearisomely derivative, I would direct you all to Proust's Madeline's but we've all internalized his observation by now, so there is no need, is there. (notice the question tag that elicits the expected response from my interlocutor). I keep detailing the days because I am trying to hold off coming to Tuesday but sadly I am out of anecdotes and so must enter my classroom of 5C at 11:40. By noon I was sitting and shaking on a bench, but how did I get there with my hands still chalky from eagerness giving of knowledge?
I entered with my usual briskness and called out my clarion request for the date, then I moved on to ask a whole range of students this week's question "how did you come to school today" (nota bene, if anyone ever comes here to interview Cameroonian youth on their lifestyles my classes will seriously skew the results because the majority "flew in an airplane" although some "rode a horse" and still others "took a spaceship" it sure is exciting to come to ColPro, isn't it (notice the different question tag following a sentence lacking a negation). But I am still delaying. You see I called on a young man whom I only rarely call on because he is rather shy.upon getting the correct answer, though, I lavished praise and turned to the board to introduce the present perfect tense. And then chaos erupted. I turned around and the by I had complimented had another wrestled to a table and in addition to beating him was stabbing him in the neck with a pen. Luckily the pen was capped. I wish I could say that I leaped into action, but as I moved forward shouting to them to stop, my students, never very docile to begin with, walled the fight off and prevented me from getting through. And here the fact of my not being an Cameroonian teacher really shows, because I refuse to lay a hand on a student, and so was one in a bind. So I ran outside and squealed for help. Since no one came running, I ran to the next class over and hustled the teacher out. By now several other teachers had come and managed to beat their way to the fighters and parted them and took them out, meanwhile all the corridors were packed with students who had evacuated their respective halls at the noise of the erupted chaos. Once order was restored, though, I though I'd better return to class, after all we have an exam approaching and I want everyone to do well, in fact I am rather spoon feeding their preparation. But upon walking in I witnessed a pastiche of the fight my three most reserved young girls had each other locked in headlocks and were pretending to stab and best each other, others were encouraging them and shouting and cheering. I went to the front, but was unable to restore order, and so gathered my things and went to sit out in the teachers lounge until my next class. And so I lost half a class period, the very first class I voluntarily missed.
Well none of this would be so bad if not for the that after the fight the teachers were laughing about it saying "no one understands the Cameroonians. They like to joke, they're all jokesters." I started lecturing everyone about how violence is never a joke and about sovereignty of the body, but they only wanted to laugh at the event. It turns out to have been begun because the Cameroonian had named the Chadian whom I had complimented "Mr. Mayor." a reference no one has been able to explain to me why it would cause offense.
Still upset, I left school and went to take a cup of shah in the comforting little shop of Mommie Shah, and once there I told her and her husband of my experience (an upside, moments like this really allow me to exercise my French and realize where I have vocabulary holes) and her tiny little daughter came over and rubbed my arm and then she gave me a heaping plate of Djamba Djamba with lots of hot pepper to wash away the bummer of a morning.
Well things only improved from there, for that night the Fredericks, the Nelsons, Mia and I went out for finger fish. This was my great coup. I had requested to Phi, that we do so since Val has talked it up ever since they arrived and it is one major experience that some of us have never had. So I secretly arranged it all and we headed out deep into the Muslim quarter. There we climbed some steps and pointed to various fish in a barrel. The lady proprietor then grasped them and plopped them on a spitting grill. We were then led into a room inside a warren-like building where very group had their own room with full easy chairs and couches around a table. It is like a cross between a private room in a Chinese tea garden and a booth at the Fryin' Pan. And after twenty minutes or so the fish comes out with some fried plantains and various condiments. I soon discover my inability to each fish until Phil showed me how to remove the spine. But one thing I was very good at was sucking the eyeballs out of the skull, so I did that and was pleased at the taste.
And then the week proceeded accordingly. My students were well behaved and even eager to know certain things, and now the English Club is busy preparing for Bilingual week at the end of the month.
Ahhh, but then I almost forgot, it turns out that the post office has been holding out on me, and this week's grand prize winner I'd my aunt Peggy who sent me a heaping box of chocolate Pfeffernusse which I wolfed down with my morning coffee, not all of them, though, for I am eager to share. But they are awesomely delicious, so chances are good that I'll be devilishly selfish. Also, I received letters from First Lutheran, a darling card from St. Mark's (I say darling because a bunch of kids signed it and it is strange to see American children signatures because they are scrawls, the children here, regardless of their normal handwriting, cultivate a unique signature that is a bunch of jagged lines or curly cues, but none have the roundedness of the American pen. I got great card from Norma Stene, who over an inspired Christmas time dinner had all the guests write something to me! And a really fun card from Dick and Marlys Stensaas which included the Christmas letter (I have a sort of fascination with the genre of the Christmas letter and so was very happy to get that) and finally came in a card from First Lutheran, so a very merry Christmas in January, indeed.
Things began last Friday with our last meal at the coffeeshop with Mia, for she left this week and thus we filled the week with last times. After sitting there and reading some comics that my mama sent to us, as always wonderfully and uniquely apropos to the quotidian out here in Ngaoundere, although we sometimes spend much more time on the backs of the comics trying to decipher an advertisement or figure out what a crossword clue might have been, or piece together a certain horoscope, at times I feel we need Rex Stout to be across from us in order to give us a hint, and some recondite anecdote about an exotic food ingredient or the color tinge of a lily. But we do our best. Sunday we went to the Plaza for Ngaoundere's most expensive meal, a Buffet that confuses me a great deal because there is always the same amount of food, but sometimes there is no one there and sometimes there are a dozen tables full, I have yet to get out my graphing calculator and figure it out, preferring instead to be awash in puzzlement. Mia, though, was one happy camper all weekend because she had finally gotten her package in the mail for Christmas, and it was full of ingredients. She is allergic to wheat, so various baking mixes were desires by her. (notice the beautiful passive constructive with agent introduced by preposition 'by'--could you pass my English tests?). The reason for this long explanation is that I manipulated a breakfast out of her. After listening to her regale us with tales of pancakes and Minnesota maple syrup (also in the package) I asked if she'd not like to use more of her ingredients before departing and then brazenly invited myself over for a breakfast on Monday and then I found myself transported to America! It is amazing what some dough cakes flipped around in a pan and then soaked in the syrups tapped from tall trees can do for the memory. If I were in a more scholastic mood, and feeling wearisomely derivative, I would direct you all to Proust's Madeline's but we've all internalized his observation by now, so there is no need, is there. (notice the question tag that elicits the expected response from my interlocutor). I keep detailing the days because I am trying to hold off coming to Tuesday but sadly I am out of anecdotes and so must enter my classroom of 5C at 11:40. By noon I was sitting and shaking on a bench, but how did I get there with my hands still chalky from eagerness giving of knowledge?
I entered with my usual briskness and called out my clarion request for the date, then I moved on to ask a whole range of students this week's question "how did you come to school today" (nota bene, if anyone ever comes here to interview Cameroonian youth on their lifestyles my classes will seriously skew the results because the majority "flew in an airplane" although some "rode a horse" and still others "took a spaceship" it sure is exciting to come to ColPro, isn't it (notice the different question tag following a sentence lacking a negation). But I am still delaying. You see I called on a young man whom I only rarely call on because he is rather shy.upon getting the correct answer, though, I lavished praise and turned to the board to introduce the present perfect tense. And then chaos erupted. I turned around and the by I had complimented had another wrestled to a table and in addition to beating him was stabbing him in the neck with a pen. Luckily the pen was capped. I wish I could say that I leaped into action, but as I moved forward shouting to them to stop, my students, never very docile to begin with, walled the fight off and prevented me from getting through. And here the fact of my not being an Cameroonian teacher really shows, because I refuse to lay a hand on a student, and so was one in a bind. So I ran outside and squealed for help. Since no one came running, I ran to the next class over and hustled the teacher out. By now several other teachers had come and managed to beat their way to the fighters and parted them and took them out, meanwhile all the corridors were packed with students who had evacuated their respective halls at the noise of the erupted chaos. Once order was restored, though, I though I'd better return to class, after all we have an exam approaching and I want everyone to do well, in fact I am rather spoon feeding their preparation. But upon walking in I witnessed a pastiche of the fight my three most reserved young girls had each other locked in headlocks and were pretending to stab and best each other, others were encouraging them and shouting and cheering. I went to the front, but was unable to restore order, and so gathered my things and went to sit out in the teachers lounge until my next class. And so I lost half a class period, the very first class I voluntarily missed.
Well none of this would be so bad if not for the that after the fight the teachers were laughing about it saying "no one understands the Cameroonians. They like to joke, they're all jokesters." I started lecturing everyone about how violence is never a joke and about sovereignty of the body, but they only wanted to laugh at the event. It turns out to have been begun because the Cameroonian had named the Chadian whom I had complimented "Mr. Mayor." a reference no one has been able to explain to me why it would cause offense.
Still upset, I left school and went to take a cup of shah in the comforting little shop of Mommie Shah, and once there I told her and her husband of my experience (an upside, moments like this really allow me to exercise my French and realize where I have vocabulary holes) and her tiny little daughter came over and rubbed my arm and then she gave me a heaping plate of Djamba Djamba with lots of hot pepper to wash away the bummer of a morning.
Well things only improved from there, for that night the Fredericks, the Nelsons, Mia and I went out for finger fish. This was my great coup. I had requested to Phi, that we do so since Val has talked it up ever since they arrived and it is one major experience that some of us have never had. So I secretly arranged it all and we headed out deep into the Muslim quarter. There we climbed some steps and pointed to various fish in a barrel. The lady proprietor then grasped them and plopped them on a spitting grill. We were then led into a room inside a warren-like building where very group had their own room with full easy chairs and couches around a table. It is like a cross between a private room in a Chinese tea garden and a booth at the Fryin' Pan. And after twenty minutes or so the fish comes out with some fried plantains and various condiments. I soon discover my inability to each fish until Phil showed me how to remove the spine. But one thing I was very good at was sucking the eyeballs out of the skull, so I did that and was pleased at the taste.
And then the week proceeded accordingly. My students were well behaved and even eager to know certain things, and now the English Club is busy preparing for Bilingual week at the end of the month.
Ahhh, but then I almost forgot, it turns out that the post office has been holding out on me, and this week's grand prize winner I'd my aunt Peggy who sent me a heaping box of chocolate Pfeffernusse which I wolfed down with my morning coffee, not all of them, though, for I am eager to share. But they are awesomely delicious, so chances are good that I'll be devilishly selfish. Also, I received letters from First Lutheran, a darling card from St. Mark's (I say darling because a bunch of kids signed it and it is strange to see American children signatures because they are scrawls, the children here, regardless of their normal handwriting, cultivate a unique signature that is a bunch of jagged lines or curly cues, but none have the roundedness of the American pen. I got great card from Norma Stene, who over an inspired Christmas time dinner had all the guests write something to me! And a really fun card from Dick and Marlys Stensaas which included the Christmas letter (I have a sort of fascination with the genre of the Christmas letter and so was very happy to get that) and finally came in a card from First Lutheran, so a very merry Christmas in January, indeed.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
A new year
Let us begin whee everyone is beginning over here in Africa, with a cheery happy new year to the individual and an even heartier wish for a happy new year to the family. There is nothing like the African wish for good health to a family so far distant to remind me of the difference betwixt he and the states. If I know someone, I will ask after them, but because you, dear readers, are either known by me or know me through this particular blog you are, by a fascinating metaphysical contingency, of enormous importance to my daily liturgy of greetings. We are great ones for greetings over here in Africa and the platitudes go on. But of course by my having chosen just now to write platitudes I misrepresent the African greeting, for the wishes of health are far more genuine than any high five and fist bump exchanged in the states, even though to the outside witness the finger snap seems just as casual.
But I was speaking of beginnings. I will admit immediately that I failed to stay awake to welcome the new year, and so I dreamt myself into 2012, which I think bodes well for having a mystical year as opposed to the last when I was wide awake, dancing in a Lima nightclub with countless menopausal women, and thus danced through the year itself, though some of it was rather like dancing in the dark. (Ovid reference: writing poetry that no one reads is like dancing in the dark. See his Tristia, but make no connection, this blog is not my writings from the black sea, from banishment).
Shall we begin again? The last day of December found the Americans and Canadiens, Phil, June, Mia, Myself, Jack, Val, and the wonderful Anne, Willie (whom I have not seen since I first arrived in Yaounde five months ago) and their son Mika. We had a scrumptious feast of foods: Phil had caught a Nile perch whilst we were on the safari and he cooked it up something delicious, Mia prepared a cucumber and tomato salad, the Fredericks brought a wonderful casserole of squash and cheese, and I had Alfred's wife make a mysterious dish for me. I might have cooked, but since I have shifted my diet to shah and corn fou fou, my fridge contains only eggs, hot sauce, and mustard. I feel awesomely bachelored. She ended up creating a masterpiece of fried plantains with eggs and spices that all gobbled eagerly. And round that new years eve table we sat with great glorious laughter and goofs. Afterward, Anne poured us glasses of a a creamy South African liqueur and we commenced the games. But first you should know about a Cameroonian custom. The young (and sometimes not so) go door to door and pound a drum and best the earth with their leathery foot soles and sing a song demanding gifts, at which the the owner of the house rewards the interruption. A rather nice twisted confluence of Halloween and Christmas Caroling, I do thing. The first game we played was throw streamers around the house, and it was very fun as the streamers are cheap bits of colored paper that unroll spasmodically in the air, and we soon succeeded in capturing each other in harmless shackled of pulped wood. Following this I blew up several balloons (Anne had really come prepared) and we batted them around, usually with the three year old Mika ad our focus and he delighted in animatedly swatting them, but we all, in our various apertures in the living room, swatted and laughed eagerly into the late hour of 21:00. At this, worn out from diving and leaping after balloons and heaving Mika hither and yon, we retired back to the table to play a card game known to Phil and June called, I think, swat or something, like that, which is played a bit like slap jack crossed with UNO, but it delighted us into the late hours of 22:35 at which point we all retired to our various domiciles happy with our time together and none frayed about the edges of attempting to stay up too late.
What follows is the most boring day of Africa.
I was really excited for the first. I was to go and witness a promotion ceremony at the military camp here in Ngaoundere, where a member of M'baya was earning a promotion. Alfred said he'd pick me up at nine, the starting time. By this time I am, thankfully, more relaxed into the ides that start times in Africa are governed by invisible fairies who bear the stopwatches of commencement and so was fine with leaving for an event at the hour it commenced. But at nine Alfred did not appear, unworried, I continued to wait. But then at nine thirty I saw him approach rather hurriedly. I rushed out to encounter him the slightest bit peeved. It turns out that he thought I would come to him at nine, so there was some confusion, but it soon vanished and we trekked our way easily with his brother to the camp. Part of the way Principal Hamidiko was with us as he was going to a church far out but in the general direction we traced. But once at the military camp, there was nothing happening. And nothing continued to happen for three hours. At noon, I learned that part of the delay was due to the fact that everyone was waiting for the governor of Ngaoundere whose presence was necessary but who had celebrated New Years in a more doused mode than many of us, and he at last tiredly made his appearance. But now I was not feeling so hot. Or rather I was really hot. I'd eaten nothing at morning, expecting to break my fast with Alfred soon after we left the event, but I had also had little to drink that morning as I did not want to have to clench my bladder through a ceremony. But that was when I thought it would be a short ceremony. But now it was one o clock and I sat down on the ledge after buying and eating a packet of crackers. Unfortunately and embarrassingly for Alfred I think, I fell asleep. The ceremony had actually started, but there was no fanfare, no twirling dance of sharply dressed trim men twirling their firearms. Instead there was a lazy procession of too many persons with unattached epaulettes who waited for a commanding officer to slip an insignia through the shoulder clasp and then button it down. That is actually a good bit of ritual connected as it is with the idea of knighthood and a casual slap on the shoulder. But as more and more went and I felt fainter and fainter I suddenly felt Alfred nudge me and motion me to go. He said, kindly and mendaciously, that he needed to go since we had been there do long. It was now 13:40. We walked back to his home and he generously fed me, but unfortunately it was the one African meal I dislike: Achou (a brittle and pokey green with a bitter taste) with cow skin (a delicacy I cannot quite palate) and water fou fou ( gooey and not nearly as good as its cousin corn fou fou--it is made with manioc). And then I was sick in the afternoon.
But only Sunday was a bummer. School, this week was spectacular not only had my students remembered most of their lessons but they seemed to have studied a little bit and were eager for the week's lesson of modes of transportation. And so playful, too, they were, cheekily telling me that they flew space ships to school that morning. Ha.
Tonight we had M'baya and I felt a bit badly for my thoughts about the promotion ceremony because for the members of the group it was stirring and they took great pride in the fact that one of the speakers of their dialect had been recognized. Turns out that this man I was drinking besides and dancing with is the greatest marksman in Cameroon and is rather famous for it. Ironically he was wearing a t-shirt bearing the phrase "put down your guns...take up your guitars."
Happy new year, readers.
But I was speaking of beginnings. I will admit immediately that I failed to stay awake to welcome the new year, and so I dreamt myself into 2012, which I think bodes well for having a mystical year as opposed to the last when I was wide awake, dancing in a Lima nightclub with countless menopausal women, and thus danced through the year itself, though some of it was rather like dancing in the dark. (Ovid reference: writing poetry that no one reads is like dancing in the dark. See his Tristia, but make no connection, this blog is not my writings from the black sea, from banishment).
Shall we begin again? The last day of December found the Americans and Canadiens, Phil, June, Mia, Myself, Jack, Val, and the wonderful Anne, Willie (whom I have not seen since I first arrived in Yaounde five months ago) and their son Mika. We had a scrumptious feast of foods: Phil had caught a Nile perch whilst we were on the safari and he cooked it up something delicious, Mia prepared a cucumber and tomato salad, the Fredericks brought a wonderful casserole of squash and cheese, and I had Alfred's wife make a mysterious dish for me. I might have cooked, but since I have shifted my diet to shah and corn fou fou, my fridge contains only eggs, hot sauce, and mustard. I feel awesomely bachelored. She ended up creating a masterpiece of fried plantains with eggs and spices that all gobbled eagerly. And round that new years eve table we sat with great glorious laughter and goofs. Afterward, Anne poured us glasses of a a creamy South African liqueur and we commenced the games. But first you should know about a Cameroonian custom. The young (and sometimes not so) go door to door and pound a drum and best the earth with their leathery foot soles and sing a song demanding gifts, at which the the owner of the house rewards the interruption. A rather nice twisted confluence of Halloween and Christmas Caroling, I do thing. The first game we played was throw streamers around the house, and it was very fun as the streamers are cheap bits of colored paper that unroll spasmodically in the air, and we soon succeeded in capturing each other in harmless shackled of pulped wood. Following this I blew up several balloons (Anne had really come prepared) and we batted them around, usually with the three year old Mika ad our focus and he delighted in animatedly swatting them, but we all, in our various apertures in the living room, swatted and laughed eagerly into the late hour of 21:00. At this, worn out from diving and leaping after balloons and heaving Mika hither and yon, we retired back to the table to play a card game known to Phil and June called, I think, swat or something, like that, which is played a bit like slap jack crossed with UNO, but it delighted us into the late hours of 22:35 at which point we all retired to our various domiciles happy with our time together and none frayed about the edges of attempting to stay up too late.
What follows is the most boring day of Africa.
I was really excited for the first. I was to go and witness a promotion ceremony at the military camp here in Ngaoundere, where a member of M'baya was earning a promotion. Alfred said he'd pick me up at nine, the starting time. By this time I am, thankfully, more relaxed into the ides that start times in Africa are governed by invisible fairies who bear the stopwatches of commencement and so was fine with leaving for an event at the hour it commenced. But at nine Alfred did not appear, unworried, I continued to wait. But then at nine thirty I saw him approach rather hurriedly. I rushed out to encounter him the slightest bit peeved. It turns out that he thought I would come to him at nine, so there was some confusion, but it soon vanished and we trekked our way easily with his brother to the camp. Part of the way Principal Hamidiko was with us as he was going to a church far out but in the general direction we traced. But once at the military camp, there was nothing happening. And nothing continued to happen for three hours. At noon, I learned that part of the delay was due to the fact that everyone was waiting for the governor of Ngaoundere whose presence was necessary but who had celebrated New Years in a more doused mode than many of us, and he at last tiredly made his appearance. But now I was not feeling so hot. Or rather I was really hot. I'd eaten nothing at morning, expecting to break my fast with Alfred soon after we left the event, but I had also had little to drink that morning as I did not want to have to clench my bladder through a ceremony. But that was when I thought it would be a short ceremony. But now it was one o clock and I sat down on the ledge after buying and eating a packet of crackers. Unfortunately and embarrassingly for Alfred I think, I fell asleep. The ceremony had actually started, but there was no fanfare, no twirling dance of sharply dressed trim men twirling their firearms. Instead there was a lazy procession of too many persons with unattached epaulettes who waited for a commanding officer to slip an insignia through the shoulder clasp and then button it down. That is actually a good bit of ritual connected as it is with the idea of knighthood and a casual slap on the shoulder. But as more and more went and I felt fainter and fainter I suddenly felt Alfred nudge me and motion me to go. He said, kindly and mendaciously, that he needed to go since we had been there do long. It was now 13:40. We walked back to his home and he generously fed me, but unfortunately it was the one African meal I dislike: Achou (a brittle and pokey green with a bitter taste) with cow skin (a delicacy I cannot quite palate) and water fou fou ( gooey and not nearly as good as its cousin corn fou fou--it is made with manioc). And then I was sick in the afternoon.
But only Sunday was a bummer. School, this week was spectacular not only had my students remembered most of their lessons but they seemed to have studied a little bit and were eager for the week's lesson of modes of transportation. And so playful, too, they were, cheekily telling me that they flew space ships to school that morning. Ha.
Tonight we had M'baya and I felt a bit badly for my thoughts about the promotion ceremony because for the members of the group it was stirring and they took great pride in the fact that one of the speakers of their dialect had been recognized. Turns out that this man I was drinking besides and dancing with is the greatest marksman in Cameroon and is rather famous for it. Ironically he was wearing a t-shirt bearing the phrase "put down your guns...take up your guitars."
Happy new year, readers.